Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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“Then it should have reached you the day before yesterday. I’m sorry, madam, but I’ll have to inquire into the matter.” Mrs. Livingston closed the door and the postman walked nervously down the street. Could I have lost that letter?” he muttered to himself. “I remember having some mail for her Tuesday, but I think I delivered it. Shall I tell the postmaster about it to-day? No; I’ll wait.” The thought of the letter troubled him but he would tell no one. He remembered the bank letter which he had delivered and his consicence was clear. Meanwhile the week passed. Mrs. Livingston became nearly frantic. The money to save her home was somewhere, but it would come too late. All efforts to delay the sale were useless. A rich customer had long coveted the little home as an addition to his beautiful grounds, hence the bank was merciless. Saturday came, the day of the sale. The mother thought of her child as already homeless. A knock startled her. “The sheriff,” she thought. But to her surprise it was the postman. He handed her a letter. She opened it and clasped tightly a one thousand dollar San Francisco draft. “You don’t know how thankful I am that it has come on time.” she said. The postman was touched. “I am glad to bring you the letter on time, madam,” he said, and with a light heart he continued on his regular round of duties. She hurried to the bank. Would she be too late? “Sir. heie is the money,” she barely whispered. The cashier and president, for one man served the bank as both, looked at the clock, the hands pointed to 9:45. “All right, madam, I will telephone the sheriff that the sale is off, as the mortgage is paid.” His face reflected the excitement that she exhibited. The sale of the widow’s home had been distasteful to him. Her home was saved, and with a light step, keeping time to the beating cf her heart, she hurried homeward. She had reached the bend in the road, in a minute she would be resting in an unmortgaged home. But her heart stopped its beating. A volume of smoke was pouring skyward from the direction of the home. What did it mean! She hurried around the hill that hid the view. Her home was safe. The smoke was pouring from the chimney, and on the porch was an explanation of the extravagant use of the fuel. “Oh, John, my boy,” was all that she could say as son and mother happily met. Later John heard his mother’s story, but the mystery of the delayed letter was never made known. 92 ADELENE GREER, 1911.

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lEfje Cxpeitrb letter i(T CAN’T mend anything more to-night,” said Mrs. Livingston, despon-1 dently, as she laid down a half-darned stocking, and to think I can't get work.” The coals glowed brightly, but the fire was too low to really warm the room. Mother, I’ll build the fire for you, I know if this room were warmer you’d feel better,” and little Gertrude, a child of ten, stopped talking to her pet kitty and jumped up to replenish the tiny fire. Darling, we’ll have to be careful and not make too big fires for coal is so dear, and really I am warm enough.” The mother thought of the mortgage, and the interest which was over due, and a sigh escaped her. She tried to speak cheerfully for she would not burden her child. If John would only come home he could help me.” The words unconsciously escaped her lips. Mamma, I’ll help you if I can. Perhaps I can get some money by running errands for Mrs. Brown, and then I’ll give every cent to you. Don’t worry, mamma, don’t worry.” A sound of footsteps outside sent a glow of hope to Mrs. Livingston’s heart. The thought that her absent son had returned from the Philippines always rose at any unusual movement. A knock sounded and hope fled. John would not wait to knock at his mother’s door. Run. child, open the door. It is cold to wait outside.” A messenger gave the child a telegram, shook his head at the invitation to enter, and departed. Mrs. Livingston opened the message with quivering hands and read the following: “Mother: Home about next Sunday; just mailed the thousand dollars. Love. John.” Only ten words, yet her life was changed. Her face beamed with happiness for the mortgage could be paid. The next morning the postman found her waiting. He handed her a letter. The home was saved! She tore the envelope open, but to her sorrow the letter was not from John. The bank had sent a notice saying that the property mortgaged must be sold at ten o’clock the following Saturday. The mortgage must be satisfied. The notice was printed with here and there a blank space filled in with writing. Her case in the eyes of the bank was only one of many. This thought passed through her mind as she laid down the pitiless letter. Two days went by and still no letter. Can it be,” she asked the postman, “that my letter has been lost?” “Sent by my son last Saturday,” she responded in answer to his question as to the sender and the time. 91

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(Efje Barb is Jfligfjtirst (Being ye tale of how ye valorous Lord of ye Dark did intercept, foil, and overcome two desperate villains bent on flight.) « A ND the culprit marched boldly into the house. Fearless, he took his stand in the middle of the room and remarked indifferently: ‘Hello, Dad.’ ” ‘‘The gov’n’r looked up and surveyed his son coolly. Without showing any surprise, he said: ‘Come into the woodshed, my son.’ ” “ ‘All right, dad,’ replied our hero.” Joe Conkle had finished reading the tale of the wonderful youth who ran away from a hard-hearted father, had all kinds of adventure, and after becoming miraculously rich, returned to the “old man” and bore his punishment unflinchingly. The story was very interesting but the two listeners were more so. The youngest was a winsome little fellow. Joe’s brother. Willis. Their father was the doctor of Polus Center. Willis, or “Little Doc.” was the pet of the town. His large, innocent blue eyes and curly light hair won him many friends. Hal Brandt, the second boy, was also known as a cute youngster, smart as a whip. Joe Conkle, the oldest of the three, was ten years and five months old. (He never forgot to mention the months when stating his age.) He was: the leader, the one who originated all the games. He invented a new game of fire engine. He had built a wonderful telephone of two cigar boxes and a ball of wrapping twine. And it worked!—except at times when the transmitter proved too much of an obstacle for Joe’s voice to overcome. But on these occasions it was only necessary for Joe to step aside and call to Hal across the street: “Did you hear what I said?” It was Joe who first conceived the idea of a “den” and the forming of the “gang.” The den was located among the rafters of the woodshed, a few feet above the piles of cordwood. A villainous place was this retreat of the “gang.” It was a low-ceilinged, cramped-up little room under the eaves. At one end stood a box, which in black letters maintained the superiority of Larkin’s Soap. On this rested a candle-stick in the neck of a bottle which was proudly admired by its proprietors because blown into the glass were the letters B-E-E-R. The flickering light of the candle dimly revealed a bench along one wall occupied by the three scowling, savage beings, each pulling meditatively at a dingy black pipe. The air reeked with the smoke of the cornsilk. As the hero of the story achieved the consummation of his glory in those last bold words a sigh escaped the listeners—a sigh of relief, regret and long- 93